


you and i are a riot of sound

by songfic_suites



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 13:52:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songfic_suites/pseuds/songfic_suites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's not that kind of girl. He tells her he's not that kind of guy. Yet with his hands down the back of her jeans and his lower lip between hers, she knows they're both liars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you and i are a riot of sound

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: PWP with a smidgeon of plot that mated with a plot bunny, AU-All Human  
> Disclaimer: Don't own anything. This is for entertainment purposes only. Characters are used without permission and no copyright infringement is intended.  
> Author's Notes: This is my first Spuffy fic so criticism would be greatly appreciated.

 

 

 

She's not that kind of girl. He tells her he's not that kind of guy. Yet with his hands down the back of her jeans and his lower lip between hers, she knows they're both liars.

Everyone's capable when the chemistry's right.

Earlier that night, she just wanted to meet him. She waited three hours and endured numerous "Go home"s just so he could sign her Rolling Stone magazine. He is the first rock star she's ever met. He's also the first guy she's ever really kissed.

She pulls back, panting, and he slides his kisses down her jaw, coming to a stop on the sensitive skin behind her ear. The city skyline bounces past the window and a particularly hard ass-grab makes her groan.

Soon his hands vacate her jeans and slip under her shirt. Her nibbles pebble up against his palms. The leather under her knees murmers and hums and she realizes she's rocking on top of him, blindly circling her clit over the firm bulge in his jeans and getting wetter by the minute.

"Jesus pet," he moans before latching on to her right nipple.

"Spike," slips through her teeth in a hiss as he rocks back.

The pace picks up. His teeth lightly pull her nipple as he pants around it. She sticks out one hand to balance herself and lets the other clutch the back of his head. So close, so close...

A rush of heat and the hum of a moan from him and her eyes open in shock. She's had orgasms before but only alone and never like this. Heat rushing behind her eyes and a tingling in her fingertips. And the sound, sucked out of this space until all that is left is all-encompassing warmth and pleasure.

This wasn't how she wanted the night to end but she didn't want to stop either.

She leans forward, resting her cheek on his hair as he pants between her breasts. The breath from his chuckle cools sweat that she didn't know was there.

"I can't believe I just came in my pants like a sodding teenager."

She smiles even though he can't see it. She feels stupid for letting her insecurities take over but she knows, every moment she opens herself a little more, she's knows he's going to see the truth.

"You’re not a teenager, right?" he chuckles with mock-seriousness.

She flinches but she's not quick enough to hide it.

He leans back, eyebrow raised. She looks away.

Silence is an answer too.

A muscle ticks in his jaw and she's torn between pleading and simply leaning forward to feel that muscle move under her tongue.

He makes the decision for her.

"Off," he says.

She climbs off, head down, then turns toward the window.

"Where can I drop you off love?" he asks.

His voice is calm but his jaw is hard and she can't tell if he's pissed about not getting laid or something else.

"Just like that?" she asks.

"When you throw your jailbait body at a rock star, yeah, it's just like that." His nails dig into the leather seat. "Now where can I drop you?"

"I'm sorry--"

"Not an answer."

"I wasn't trying to---I didn't plan this."

"I believe that's the first line in the teenage groupie handbook, innit'?"

"I’ll be twenty in a month. Plus, I'm not a groupie, I'm a fan. There is a difference."

"Not from what I've seen."

She shakes her head and takes a breath.

"Look, the reason why I took you up on your offer was you seemed like a cool guy. I just wanted to spend some time with you. I didn't expect to---I didn't expect any of this. At best I just hoped for your autograph and a hug because I love your music. And then..."

Spike stares at her while she's talking, his eyes are hard, looking for a hint that she's playing him. When she's finishes, he breaks into a wry grin that doesn't reach his eyes. He claps and whispers "Brava."

She huffs and retreats within herself, the window her only distraction. "Just go back to the arena. I don't care if you don't believe me."

"I don't," he says.

"Good," she replies and she means it. She tells herself not all guys are like him but she struggles to reconcile the cold man in front of her with the loving, lonely man in his songs.

He breaks the silence with soft rhythmic pats on his knee. First a steady thump and then bringing in his other hand tapping out a complicated rhythm on top. She turns back to the window but her eyes keep going to his hands and her mind keeps going back to where those hands were.

"Stupid," she mutters to herself.

His hands stop. "Wha'?"

"We're here," a voice says through the speakers.

Buffy burst through the doors as Spike opens his mouth. She wants to shout a nasty retort but she wants to get far away even more. Yet one question won't leave her alone.

She slaps on the window, just as the car pulls off.

"What n--"

"Who wrote your songs?"

"Huh?"

"Your songs," she says again. "Who wrote them?"

"I did," he says like she should know...and be in awe.

Instead she snorts and shakes her head. "Yeah right," she throws over her shoulders and walks towards the arena.

She hears a car behind her and turns slightly to see it’s the limo. She stops and the window rolls down.

"Why don't you believe I wrote them," he asks.

"I just don't," she says. "It doesn't matter what I think anyway. I'm just a mindless groupie, right?" She glares from the corner of her eyes and keeps walking.

"Oi'! Those songs came from my guts. I wouldn't take credit for another person's work."

She rolls her eyes. "Dude seriously...really don't care. Not anymore," she adds with a sigh.

"Well who do you think wrote them?"

"I DON'T CARE!" she screams into his window suddenly. Then storms off in the opposite direction.

She hears his door open a second before his hand jerks her arm around.

"I am not a phony," he grinds out.

"I don't believe you. How does it feel?"

She hates herself but she is still faced with the fact that his touch can still set off tinglies, even in the midst of being offended by him.

"There's no way a guy would treat me the way you just did and write that--those songs," she says quietly and looks down at his hand. He lets it fall. "It's just not possible."

He runs his fingers through his hair, exhaling loudly and looking at her wary.

"I'm sorry," he says, cramming his fingers into his pockets. "This business--" he looks off to the side, then shakes his head. "Trust issues love." He pauses like he's said too much. "Occupational hazard."

"I don't trust easily either." She crosses her arms over her chest. "Gender hazard."

"So where does that leave us?" he asks.

She laughs bitterly then quickly smothers it. "I don't care," she says to herself and his brow furrows. "A million girls would kill to be me right now, for you to be there and say what you just said but it doesn't mean anything." Her mind tells her she's saying too much but her mouth is running out of her control. "No one is who they say they are," she brings herself to look up into his eyes. "And I don't know why that is. I thought, with your songs, there was one person--" she covers her mouth with her fingers. "You know what? It's been a long night, I'm tired so I'm going home." She turns to leave but stops and looks over her shoulder. "Great show, by the way."

"Wait," he grabs her arm again then holds up his hands at her glare. "There's a late night coffee spot here that I go to that no one knows about. What d'you say we get a cup and --“ he pauses, “and see where the night takes us.”

She fidgets with her hands, sliding her palms up and down her forearms as her thoughts flip-flop with possibilities. She could go. She wants to go but the part of her that seen this scenario go wrong holds her back.

He shifts his weight and she smiles. "No,” she says.

His face falls but she turns, power-walking into the wind and back to her dorm. She’s not that kind of girl, you see. She refuses to be that kind of girl.


End file.
